This Is Something Relevant

Part of being a new ex pat from America, is an unhealthy attachment to the internet and peanut butter. The internet thing has you looking at old friend’s photos to see what they’re doing and who they know now that you are gone. Part of me wonders if I am comparing the appearance of my life to theirs, but am almost positive that I am just avoiding doing what I need to do by hanging out on Facebook. There is always something comforting in the creepiness of stalking strangers, but even better than that, is the idea of a world where you can comment on strangers photos without virtually knowing them.

“Be careful!”, “: P” or “That better be juice!” has an air of invested concern that might be reassuring coming from a complete outsider... or it could be gross, depending on my profile pic. I remember, back when I was on Myspace, forever ago, I thought creating a page where I was Jesus Christ would be brilliant. I was sure no one had ever thought of it and I was confident I was an ironic genius. However, as you can imagine, thousands of mentally retarded and just mildly dumb, but hopeful people already had the same idea. The difference between them and I, was they were just creatively crippled enough to follow through with it. I was a proud dum dum, so I pretended I never thought of it and instead became a rapper. I would be the first white, female mc to hit the big time... I didn’t know a lot about hip hop, or even appreciate it very much, but I did like words and music videos. Don’t worry guys, I also seriously checked into Scientology... also... did I say also? Do you know what “also” means? Maybe you should stop here, look it up and write three sentences using it, so you know it- then write down everything bad you’ve ever done. That will be $300, why are you looking at me like that- are you on medication?

Back to commenting on strangers photos, that would be great, especially if they were teenagers or something. I think there are a few members of my family I could do that to and have the same desired “awkward affect.” It was good to get this off my chest and maybe not even slightly amusing- mission accomplished.

Paris is still breathing and I miss America in the strange smell of a new home. I have made some friends here and have routines that help me feel grounded instead of isolated or helpless. There is a comfort in redundancy, unless it results in you getting stalked and raped because they know exactly what you’re going to do next and have known for many sweaty nights. I don’t think that French men technically rape, because they kiss you a bunch... you’re welcome. I sit outside at the same cafe almost everyday to write these inspired little peeks into a still safe-guarded vulnerability. My inauthentic ramblings and inane musings are made possible by perseverance and caffeine. Today, I was writing, when a man came to peak his grey topped head over the glass divider to interrupt my “work”. He began talking to me, asking me if I was American, before I even verbally responded. “I thought you were American...” I take off my glasses, because I am not a complete asshole, so I reject with eye contact and he then says “ah yes, your eyes, that’s what I wanted to see! Everyday I see you here, behind your computer and your sunglasses and I think ‘I need to see those eyes!’” I think to myself “you need to see a shrink,” but I don’t say this, because I know that it was meant as a compliment and he’s got that handsome “ old boat captain/ skipper” thing going, so it wasn’t terribly insulting. I am just not an American who came to Paris to be treated in some generic way that guys here must be used to hooking American women with... desperate women wanting to be touched. I am desperate for some touch, but also a stickler for originality. The last boy I loved kissed me for the first time as I was about to go poo poo in the port-o-potty under a bridge- I miss his kisses. He wants to have babies with me someday, but he also likes me better when I am a bit fatter because that means I am having lazy time- his favorite. Maybe babies can wait until I change him.

So, I am on Facebook and at the cafe everyday. I talk to my ex in some way several times a week, but I am free to sudo-date here, just don’t tell him. I explore options knowing full well, that everything wont go past platonic because I cannot date somebody who doesn’t respect me for my mind and sense of humor. As it stands my jokes are lost on most and I am not interested in men who approach me on the street with some slick-talking solicitation that exceeds trite. I may be a prude, but I know what I like and there is nothing wrong with having time to write a book or pluck all the hair from my pubic region instead of getting pounded several times a day/week by a man who loves you.

Cat Piss And Other Drinks

I got a late start on writing today, but told myself that despite my resistance to do what I needed to do to create a sense of accomplishment, I would write... something. I would also run and I did, but I cried a little afterward, not sure why, but managed to pass it off as allergies in case any observer caught it and didn’t care anyway. What if some nice French lady came up and asked me “what’s wrong?” and I couldn’t understand, so I just start blubbering through every French greeting I know in replace of answering her question. What if, indeed, she would simply stop caring because I sound so stupid when I talk.

I met two Americans yesterday and I think we’ll be friends, although I am pretty sure the only reason they live here is for an excuse to drink openly in the morning with out public ridicule. They were very enthusiastic that I would also take to drinking a lot, also... did I already say “also”? I felt like telling them if my ex couldn’t make me an alcoholic, Paris definitely wont. However, I am drinking whiskey while the sun is still out and waiting to meet friends for absinthe. I am drinking alone because I need to write in public, but it’s too late for coffee. The server asked me if I was going to be having my usual, but I screamed “NO”. What a maniac- it’s 6:30pm, why would I be drinking coffee?! To stay up and tend to my meth lab? Lady this is Paris, give me a whisky because I miss America. I am drinking Johnnie Walker Red, maybe 2 ounces and at 8 euros a serving, I’m thinking that maybe I can get someone to buy it for me... just make eyes that suggest a blow job to this Frenchman who has been watching me since I came out of my Mother. Fucking perv, her dilated vagina being the only thing standing between him and date rape. That is figurative, of course, I always wear an imaginary mom’s vagina force field around me when I am still in love with my ex, the alcoholic I shouldn’t have romantic feelings towards. It does a really good job deflecting men’s advances, but a terrible job turning down alcohol.

I don’t really have unbearable romantic feelings towards my ex, I just like acting like an emotional cripple when I drink because I think it keeps me from falling into a relationship while my inhibitions are down. “How do you say ‘defense mechanism’ in French, Pierre? Here, tell my e-mail, I gotta go!” I like that I am painting myself as this elusive woman, when I am really just terrified and lonely (and actually painting pretty neurotic photos, besides). If I weren’t so transitory I would have 6 cats by now. They would be my babies because the ammonia in cat piss actually causes birth defects in real babies, and my substitute children can't go outside because a car or raccoon could kill them! I would have at least three litter boxes in my small apartment, so I should just stick with KITTIES, just so I don’t have RETARDS (take a lesson- poor people)! I will only get female cats and I will tell them that they are just like my mother when they ask for foot rubs.

Tonight, I am supposed to go to an absinthe bar, which I have never done... at least I don’t remember doing this, there are a lot of things I did that I don’t remember when I used exstacy with strippers in my early twenties. Today, I am a grown woman, although 20 year old me assumed I would be famous, married and perfect by now, but I stopped listening to 20 year old me any day now. Hopefully absinthe helps drown her out, but if eating doesn’t do it, I doubt casual sex will. Wait, what are YOU talking about?

Oh, Paris... right. I live here now and that means I go out with anybody who will talk to me and do whatever anybody is doing so that I can socialize and meet a soul mate- hopefully he has a cat and a large penis, but I’m okay with no pets too.

I did it, guys, I wrote... I focused and wrote this piece, a memoir of absolutely nothing important. I think this is the theme of my little, book project, which will make it insanely easy to finish by January. Just ask my ex, I rarely talk about anything terribly important, but I am great to have sex with. MEEEEOOOOOW!